After my death
by Wyndhamfan
Summary: What happens to Peter after the events of Homecoming? Some cops get a rude shock and we discover that Nathan has a heart.


**After my death**

By Wyndhamfan

_Get the PDF files at my blog wyndhamfan. place right after Homecoming. It contains some speculation on my part of Peter's abilities, and the connection he shares with Nathan. Of course, it probably wouldn't be canon in the future, but I'm just itching to write this. Enjoy, and please tell me if it's okay since it's my first Heroes fanfic. Ta! PS: I write in British English, hence the 'u' in odd places. Ahem._

**Disclaimer:**_None of heroes belong to me. I don't write for $. _

o O o O o

For a long time, Peter Petrelli couldn't say anything. All he could do was sit uncomfortably at the back of the police car and stare numbly at the back of the two police officers' heads. He could still feel the blood dripping from his blood-soaked hair and smell the coppery stench of his already-drying blood. The smell was so strong and nauseating that he wondered how the two men could tolerate it.

The cuffs clinked metallically as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position. The cop sitting in the passenger seat looked at him warily and then slowly turned his bored gaze back to the road.

_I died._

The reality of it all hit him.

_I died. My skull was broken, I'm sure of it._

_Hell, I could feel parts of it knitting itself back together._

He shuddered as he remembered the terror he felt when he realised that there was nothing to stop his fall. He remembered his last memory before he hit the ground with a bone-shattering crunch – it was of Nathan, and he was at one of his many political dinners where he's trying to work up some juice to get people to throw money his way. Only Peter had never been to that party before. And then Nathan turned to look at him, as if he was there, and he wore a look of horror.

And he remembered saying to dream-Nathan: "I'm sorry."

Then everything went black and there was an explosion of pain.

_I died._

"Man, this is taking forever," the cop driving the car muttered. He sniffed. Peter supposed the smell was finally getting to him.

"And on a night like this, too." The other cop – he'll call him Cop 2 for now – gave him another wary look.

"Why the hell did you do it?" asked Cop 2, his voice not-so-friendly.

"Jerry-," warned cop 1.

"Sliced open her head open and all that. For God's sakes, she's just a kid!" Jerry barked.

That woke Peter up.

"What? Someone was killed?" he asked in horror. He felt his insides turn cold. He didn't save her? Didn't save the right cheerleader? What if he couldn't stop Isaac's future? What if everything was for nothing?

"You're a piece of work, do you know that?" Jerry sneered.

That got him irritated. Here he was, arrested and suspected of killing a cheerleader after he saved another at the expense of his life. Instead of using their brains to think that perhaps he might've been injured, they suspected immediately that he was the culprit. Did his face scream villain or something?

"I didn't kill her. Would I be sitting there, in the pool of _my _blood, if I did?" he snapped.

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Nobody can survive that much blood loss!" Jerry snapped back.

"Shit, Jerry! You wanna screw up the investigation or somethin'?" the other cop interrupted.

Jerry merely scoffed and returned his hard gaze to the road.

"I didn't kill her," Peter said. But he knew that they weren't listening.

"Tell that to the lawyer, kid," said Cop 1.

Cop 1, or Bob, as Jerry called him as they hauled him out of the car, steered him to a room where Peter realised they will take his picture. A lonely camera stood in front of a large, two-way mirror and Peter stared at it, wondering how his mugshot would look like – especially with the back of his head all bloody. He allowed himself a quick grin at that. He just died and came back to life and all he could think about was whether he'd look good in his first police photo. Of course, the people at the back of the mirror would probably intepret his grin as the evil smile of a ruthless killer.

Peter sighed in resignation as Bob steered him to the middle of the room and Jerry disappeared somewhere to get what he needed to process him.

Vaguely, he wondered how the fallout would be when Nathan finds out. He could see the headlines already: "_Petrelli brother involved in gruesome murder_". Yup, that will effectively end Nathan's campaign. And Nathan will probably never forgive him for that. Just swell. And surprisingly, Peter didn't feel happy about the prospect of Nathan screwing up his campaign. Sure, Nathan was a class-A jerk, but Peter, being the schmuck that he was, still wanted Nathan to succeed despite everything that he had done to him.

He'd even prefer it if the headlines said this instead: "_Petrelli brother survives second suicide attempt"._

He grinned. At least the papers would be reporting something true this time.

The mission _was _a suicidal one. And he wondered why he went ahead with it despite Isaac's painting and Ando's warning. Maybe Nathan was right: he is an idiot.

He was jerked out of his musings when the cop uncuffed him. He could hear Bob make a sound of disgust as he studied the back of his coat. It was soaked in blood.

"Take it off – the coat," Bob muttered.

He sighed again, and took it off. He watched enough _CSI _shows to know that they want to process it. Hopefully he had one of the competent ones who will discover that most of the blood was his. Of course then there will be the question of how he survived the blood loss and where the blood came from, seeing that he now didn't have a scratch on him.

Bob took it from him with gloved hands and placed it in a clear bag. He scowled as he got some blood on his gloves. Peter thought vaguely that it must take a long time for big amounts of blood to dry.

"Take off your shirt," Bob demanded.

"You want me naked or something?" Peter said with a grin; he actually felt amused by that stupid remark.

"Shut up and just do it," Bob said irritably.

Peter rolled his eyes and took off the bloody shirt (if he knew he was going to die, you'd think that he'd choose something cheaper to wear) and turned to give it to Bob. He shivered as the cold air of the room hit his bare skin. But instead of taking the bloody shirt from him, Bob was staring at him with his jaw open.

"Shit!" Bob suddenly exclaimed and took a step back.

"What?" he exclaimed, just as loudly. He took a step forward, and Bob backed away some more staring at his chest.

"What the hell is taking so long, Bob?" Jerry said harshly as he came into the room, holding a bunch of papers.

And like Bob, he froze, staring at Peter. "Shit …" he whispered and released his hold on the papers. His face went totally pale, and Peter was sure that he was going to tip over in a dead faint. The papers did a slow waltz before it landed in a scattered heap on the floor.

"Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?" Peter yelled. He was scared enough this time.

Then he felt it.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Something warm and sticky was dripping down the side of his neck.

He frowned and carefully felt the side of his neck. He winced when he touched something sharp and bony. When he withdrew it, he saw blood on his fingers. He looked at the cops in shock, as if to tell them: _Holy shit, did you see that??_

Obviously they did, as they were still staring at him. Staring at his chest, that is.

Slowly, he turned his gaze to his chest and saw bony portrusions on the left side of his chest.

Bloody, broken ribs were sticking out of his skin.

He dropped his bloody shirt.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

Boy, was he a mess.

He stared at the jutting bone fragments in fascination, unusure what to do. Then instinct kicked in – the same instinct that drove him to rearrange his twisted torso and straighten his shattered legs – and he reached up to gingerly touch the bones portruding from the side of his neck.

He tilted his head to one side and shoved the bone back inside the skin. He winced, expecting to feel excruciating pain. But he merely felt a twinge – as if someone just tapped him.

The bone – probably a piece of his spine - popped back in where it belonged with a satisfying crunching sound that echoed in the quiet room. And he could feel a strange ripple as the skin covered over the bone and felt another tingle as he felt the bone mend inside. He closed his eyes in relief and smiled to himself.

He opened his eyes to see Bob and Jerry still staring at him in utter shock. Their mouths were still hanging open. Bob suddenly sat down on the chair beside the camera, his face as pale as Jerry's now.

_Gee, a little help guys? Call the medic or something_, Peter thought, half amused and half hysterical.

He ignored them, and carefully shoved his broken ribs back into his chest one by one.

_Crack!_

He winced in reflex. Oops, hit something a little too hard.

Peter smiled in satisfaction as new skin grew over the jagged wounds on his chest. But that smile disappeared when he realised that the cops were still staring at him like he was an exhibit in a zoo. Okay, more like a monster in a zoo.

He met their shocked expressions with a calm one. Perhaps he should've done all of this in private, but he knew that this strange ability – which he was sure he derived from another person with special abilities - would fade, and he'd rather face their horror than the pain of a broken veterbra and shattered ribs. Just exactly who this special person was he didn't dwell on. Right now, he was as shocked as the poor cops themselves, and it was all he could do not to break down and gibber away like a hysterical mad man.

Peter let them stare a little longer, then said as calmly as he could: "I'm ready. Shall we begin?"

o O o O o

Not that he'd admit it to anyone, but Nathan hated political dinners. He hated smiling and bowing down to the Washington fat cats in their expensive suits. He hated how he had to depend on their generosity to thrive.

He hated, most of all, to thank them for it.

He stood on the stage telling them why his cause wouldn't fail – not now, it wouldn't, thanks to Linderman's money – and how their contribution had made it all possible (give them what they want to hear). And then he felt a shudder run up his spine.

The sudden cold caught him by surprise so much that it made him pause mid-speech.

He gave them an amiable smile, and smoothly covered that slight stumble.

"This is what I call a pregnant, intelligent pause. Something we politicians have honed to a fine art," he gave them a megawatt smile and they laughed in response. Oh, _lame _joke. His speech writer must be wincing in his expensive Armani suit already.

He picked up his wine glass.

"Now, gentlemen. May I propose a toast-"

The fat cats raised their wine glasses.

"A toast! To a successful campaign!" He raised his glass-

And the cold returned with a vengence. He felt it travel up his arm and turn his fingers icy cold. His hand lost grip on the wineglass…

Something shattered.

And he knew. Knew then … that Peter was gone.

"Peter," he whispered.

He didn't see the stunned look his aide gave him, nor hear the murmmur of worried chatter in the fancy ballroom. Everything zeroed in on the horrible realisation that Peter was dead.

_I'm sorry._

_Peter?_

He looked up and found a sea of startled faces staring at him. And he realised, vaguely, that he had dropped the wine glass and it's now in a million pieces on the marble floor.

"Sir, are you all right?" someone said loudly. Nathan flinched and realised that the head of his security team was beside him.

He smiled shakily and tried to rebuild the remnants of his shattered composure.

"Sorry, everyone. I … uh …" There was no way he could excuse himself out of this gracefully, was there? The last thing he needed these people to think was that he had a disease or something or he wasn't at his peak. He blinked and put on a brilliant smile.

"God, I'm so embarassed. Flunked that brilliant speech, didn't I?" he clenched his trembling hands into a fist and willed it to stop shaking.

Nervous laughter.

He swallowed. "Jonathan," he called out to his aide. "Bring me another glass, will ya?"

He tried hard not to look as if he was running away from the press of politicians and businessmen, but when he got to the restroom – thankfully, blissfully empty – he had to take deep, gulping breaths as if he had just ran a mile.

_What the hell just happened? _He wondered, shaken. He stared at his pale, sweaty face in the mirror and then ran a shaking hand through his hair.

_Peter is dead. _He _knew _it. But it didn't make any sense.

"This is stupid," he said out loud and rummaged for his cell phone.

He dialled Peter's number with trembling fingers.

"You're not dead. You're not dead, because it is stupid. No one can paint the future," he murmmured into the phone.

_No one can fly either._

After all, he destroyed the painting. No way Peter's going to go to that place … no way is he going to meet that fate.

But instead of a ringing tone, he got a message from a vapid automated voice saying that the number couldn't be reached.

"Shit!" he hissed. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths and stared at his reflection.

"Get a grip, Nathan. He is _alive_."

But the deep coldness on the other side – as if he once had a connection to Peter and now it's gone – told him otherwise.

"You're alive, God damn it!" he yelled.

OooOo

Three hours after he forced himself back into that now stuffy room full of very important persons, he sat on the edge of his bed, studying his cell phone.

He tried calling Peter far too many times to count. He couldn't shake the coldness he felt deep inside. He couldn't feel _certain _that Peter is still alive. All of this did not make sense, because the last time he checked, he wasn't some psychic who could predict the future.

He frowned. But stranger things have happened.

Then, as he considered calling Peter yet again, his cell phone came to life in his hand, ringing loudly.

He hissed in irritation when he nearly dropped the phone and fumbled to answer it. It was a strange number he did not recognise but he did know one thing: It was a Texas area code.

He felt as if his heart stopped. The school – the school was in Odessa, Texas, wasn't it?

"Hello?" his voice was scratchy, weak … so unlike him.

Silence, then: "Nathan?"

And his heart began beating again. He sighed in relief and clutched the phone as if it was a lifeline to the other side. It was stupid. Stupid that he thought Peter was dead.

"Peter, where the hell were you? I called you a thousand times!" he yelled.

"Well, ah …" a cough. "I know you're going to flip but … they don't allow cell phones where I am."

"What? Where? What the hell are you talking about, Peter?"

"I'm in jail, Nathan," Peter said flatly.

Immediately, a million thoughts ran through his head – how to do damage control, what the hell was he supposed to say to the press, how the hell is the campaign going to survive …

All this almost came pouring out of him, but Peter interrupted him before he could gather his scattered thoughts.

"I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't do anything, Nathan," Peter said in exasperation. A pause, then: "Granted that they found me in rather … er, suspicious circumstances."

"Peter, get to the point, or help me God I'm going to fly there to knock your lights out right now," he growled.

His little brother actually chuckled. "Okay. You want straight to the point? You got it. I tried to save the cheerleader. I fell off a roof doing so. I died. I came back to life. Unfortunately, I forgot that sitting in a pool of blood can look very suspicious."

"This is not the time for games, Peter," he hissed angrily. But yet, deep inside, he knew it was true.

"Nathan, I'm too tired to play games. And to be honest, I have no idea why I called. Better you finding it out now than in a newspaper while you're having your morning coffee tomorrow. Just thought I could give you a headstart," he said dryly.

"Smart move, kid," he said. He meant it sarcastically, but Peter took it at face value.

"Yup, knew you'd say that. Look. They think I killed the cheerleader. I managed to save one … but I couldn't save the other."

"Peter … Peter did the man who killed … did he wear glasses?" he knew he sounded stupid. Damn, he wished he had a name for the man besides "horn-rimmed glasses guy".

"Glasses? No. That much I can tell you. Uh, time is almost up. The big guy behind me wants to use the phone. And I think you know where I am," his tone ended in a sarcastic tint.

Nathan fell silent for a while, then he said: "Yeah."

The line went dead.

He closed the connection reluctantly, and found himself, surprisingly, going into lawyer mode. The police thought that Peter was responsible for the death of the cheerleader based on circumstantial evidence. Somehow it made him angry thinking that despite Peter dying to save one cheerleader, he was being charged for a crime he sought to prevent in the first place.

"They're not going to know what hit them," he growled. Without wasting another second, he called his aide to arrange for a flight to Texas.

**Fini**

OooOoOo

_Yup, here is where it ends. This is where I think episode 11 will start. ____I had fun writing this! Hope you like it too. _


End file.
